no one's gonna love you
by squarenine
Summary: He's wallowing, again, and even though it's got everything to do with the three most important women in his life and their current states of absence, he does nothing about it. Castle has an off day, but Beckett's there to bring him back.


**A/N: **I was feeling lonely, exactly what Castle was feeling, and this sort of sprang to life. I'm still pretty new to the Castle fandom, so I apologize if Castle and Beckett are too OOC, or don't seem like themselves. I just hope this is worthy of a review! :)

Should be set mid Season 3, just a little AU from where this story ends. Hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer - I don't own Castle, or Band of Horses' song of "No One's Gonna Love You".

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><p>He sits at the counter of his kitchen island with his large, calloused hands stroking the steaming mug of hot water between them, drawing as much heat as possible from the warm liquid in his all-too-cold apartment. The thing is, it isn't even cool outside, but he feels the frosty, icy hand grip his heart and squeeze incessantly every few minutes. He's wallowing, <em>again, <em>and even though it's got everything to do with the three most important women in his life and their current states of absence, he does nothing about it_. _Just drowns in his self-pity.

He doesn't want to be a burden anyway. His mother's on vacation in an exotic land, though she's booked only the most expensive accommodations. His daughter's out with Ashley and wouldn't be back for the rest of the day, has been spending almost all of her time with Ashley, Ashley, Ashley. And Kate – No, not _Kate_.It's not personal enough and it's too personal, all at once – _Beckett _is probably out with Dr. Motorcycle Boy, the new boyfriend whom she'd told no one about. There had been a significant drop in murders – something that should be a good thing, really – so he hasn't been following her around that much in the past month, hasn't even talked to her for the past three weeks. He wonders why that knowledge pierces his gut like a knife.

His women – his mother, darling daughter and… Detective. Friend. _Best friend. _They were missing from his life at that moment and he lets the loneliness and the peace of his quiet loft fall over him, envelop him in a freezing blanket that makes him cold and stony and melancholy. He's sufficiently bored and he misses them. But he won't tell them that. No, he won't spoil their fun. He's an entertaining person; he's supposed to be the guy that's always positive, happy. But he drowns everything that's fun and happy and himself in a deep black pit hidden deeply into the folds of his chest.

He does the one thing he hates to love the most – he writes. The words don't flow as well as he hoped but he manages a sentence. _A mystery I'm never going to solve. _He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, feels the perspiration stick to his fingers. A second one. _The only good thing I've given to the world. _He lets out a shaky breath, brushing his palm over the five o'clock shadow he's allowed himself to grow. There's no one to see it, why would he care to shave? A third. _The most unorthodox mother in the world._

Then the words flow. A steady stream of prose and a little bit of poetry flowing from his mind, into his senses, into his fingertips and onto the keyboard. Tiny text fills the white, black and strong against the page, and he loses himself in his world. Soon enough, he's written an entire chapter of Heat Rises – but the Nikki Heat he's written feels a little too much like Kate Beckett and he wonders when the line had become blurred and so unsure. He's usually certain of his characters, but Nikki's beginning to sound more like Kate, while Kate sounds more like Nikki, and he highlights the passage and deletes it with a heavy sigh. _A mystery I'm never going to solve. _

His thoughts are too wrapped up in Beckett and Nikki and Kate and Heat to write coherently. He reverts back to sentences. _She's a mystery, she's an open book. She's beautiful and awful and stubborn and everything about her is perfect in such an imperfect way. I love her. _And she's with someone else. _As long as she's happy. _But he isn't. _She's happy. _He loves her. He's completely whipped, disgustingly in love, something that he hasn't truly felt before. He shoves the laptop away from him; something he can't handle right now.

_All the songs make sense. _He wants to be there all the time, by her side, holding her hand when it's cold and numb, kissing her cheek when he knows that she needs it. He wants to feel her, hold her. He wants to taste and smell cherries for the rest of his life. He wants to make her laugh, wants to wake up to that heart-stopping grin she seems to bloom into on occasion when he makes her laugh so hard that she's in stitches. _I love her. _

Richard Castle sheds a tear, wipes it away hastily and collapses face-first into his bed. His stomach growls, he groans into the pillow, but his throat tells him that he'll eat nothing with that lump stuck in there.

He realizes that he's fallen asleep when he's jolted awake by the distant ringing of the doorbell. He swipes the drool collected at the side of his mouth, and harrumphs – of course, someone would arrive at his most vulnerable of moments – and he shuffles toward the door in his robe with an old button down and boxers beneath. His hand reaches upward absently to smooth his comically spiked hair as he peeps through the hole… only to see the familiar cascading brown hair and her olive eyes darting at everything except back into the peephole. Desperately smoothing his hair down with a small yelp that he prays she doesn't hear, he pulls the door open slowly.

"Detective Beckett," he drawls out with a playful tone that tries to stick, but doesn't. He sounds annoyed, though he's far from it. He sees the emotion flit through her guarded green eyes – confusion turning instantly to hurt. Then the worry permeates her face as she stares at him. He's never seen so many emotions take root in a split second. But that's Beckett. That's the imperfect perfection that she models. He clears his throat. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"You look terrible," she states matter-of-factly, with a narrowing of her eyes. He feels her surveying his frame, smaller and less statuesque than usual, her eyes raking over his flesh in deep scrutiny. "When was the last time you ate?"

_Since lunch… Yesterday. _It's today. And it's near dinner. "A few hours ago," he lies, punctuated by the loud rumbling of his stomach. He shuts his eyes in disappointment of his own body's betrayal.

"Yesterday," he says quickly, knowing that lying to her wasn't the best move. He can feel her glare burning into his skull, her eyes in slits. Then her hand is closing over his in a vice grip, and he's being pulled into his loft, the door slamming softly behind them. She pulls him over to the kitchen counter, and he's honestly a little scared at what she's going to do to him, what she'll say. Her palm seems to burn it's print into his wrist, and his arm tingles even when she lets go.

She's wearing her hair down today, clad in a casual black blouse and jeans that capture her slim figure perfectly. She's off-duty, he guesses. So what's she doing here? He scratches at his stubble, rubs at his eyes, like a little child who's been dragged out of bed to be reprimanded by his mother. She's still staring sternly at him as he sits down on the high stool. He doesn't want to be the one to break the silence, because he really has nothing to say, other than _you make sense of all the songs. _That's not something to break the ice, so he keeps silent, finding everything that's not Kate Beckett's face to be of a worthy focus.

"Look at me," she says, softly. Gently, like she's afraid that he'll shatter if she says it any louder.

He looks at her nervously. He knows that she can see right through him, especially when his eyes are so red and his expression morose behind the cracking stoic poker face he tries to create. It's a two-way communication, like the way he can tell when something's bothering her. She's a detective, and he's observant. They read each other like open books, though when either is particularly selfish and the masks come down over their faces, it's difficult. He's quite sure that he's hit the lowest point in his life – the realization that his mother and daughter have bigger lives than him, the fact that his daughter no longer needs him to take care of her. The fact that Beckett has another person to make her happy. It's a gut-wrenching ache that never seems to fade.

He can't seem to shake the depression away.

"What's wrong, Castle?"

Everything. "Nothing. I'm just tired, that's all."

He diverts his eyes to the dark countertop, slightly faded from years and years of wiping down whenever he'd found it appropriate to clean. He hears her exhale, knows she doesn't believe him one bit. "Liar."

He glances up sharply, hoping she can see how pained he is. How he can't tell her anything because it would mean the end of their friendship, because he knows how she couldn't possibly reciprocate the amount of feeling he has for her. And he can't bear to lose her. He can't bear to drag her down, not when she's found happiness even at his expense. It's not fair to her. He meets her eyes, the green pools of her soul staring back at him. He swallows deeply, sees her eyes dart down to his bobbing Adam's apple and back to his eyes.

"I – I can't," he stammers out, closing his eyes in frustration. His heart beats twice as fast, twice as loud and he places a subtle hand over his chest, hoping to still the sound. When she opens her mouth to reply, her eyebrows raised, he cuts her off with a nervous ramble. "Please, K – Beckett, just… Let me have this one. I can't talk about this. Not now."

Her mouth snaps shut, and he can see the gears meshing in her mind, whirling round and round as she processes his words, and like she's disappointed in him, her eyes dim ever so slightly. She nods slowly, her hair bounces along with the action. He wants nothing more to reach out, to run a hand through her luscious curls, the strands that had been taunting him from the very start, calling out to him, always begging for a hand to comb through it. When she runs her own fingers through her scalp, an action he deems to be one of frustration, he presses his hands into fists, nails biting into his palm painfully, and glues them to his side. It's not his place.

"Okay," she sighs, resigned. She folds her arms indignantly across her chest. He would spare them the tension, the awkwardness, and ask her to leave, but he hasn't seen her for weeks and he wants nothing more than to spend these few minutes with her, however uncomfortable they were. He chides himself for being so selfish, but he just comes to the same conclusion – _I love her. _

"Well, at least, could you let me buy you dinner?" she asks, glancing at him shyly from under her eyelashes. His heart skips a beat, and his eyes shoot to search hers again. She reads the question in his eyes – _Why?_

She shakes her head solemnly. "Look, Castle, I don't know what's up with you. And since you won't tell me, I'll have let it go for now. But you look awful and you haven't eaten anything for the entire day, so go get cleaned up and we'll grab some burgers at Remy's or something."

He stares at his marble flooring, clears his throat, pulls at his collar, and stares at her. "Really? I look that bad, huh?"

He watches her in amusement as she struggles with the urge to roll her eyes. He's grateful that she's trying to go easy on him. Disappointed, however, that she feels the need to baby him. He'd much rather return to their usual banter. Then he realizes that he's the downer. Even if his confession might ruin her, might ruin everything he's tried to build with her for the past three years, he's already bringing her down emotionally, mentally, having to deal with his depressing state. He wants to protect her from himself. He needs her to leave.

"Kate, I don't think it's a –" _Beckett! _He chides.

He pauses when she raises a hand, her eyebrows creased in a frown. "Richard Castle, so help me, if you don't get moving to your bathroom now, I will keep a gun to your back until you step into the shower."

"And will you be in the shower with me as well?"

She rolls her eyes.

"No, but really, you're off duty, you don't even have your gu– OW! Apples, apples, apples!"

He rubs his reddened ear with wounded pride and a shaky hand, and glares at her smug smile behind the counter, her arms once against folded over her chest, an impenetrable fortress around her heart. He feels the tension melt. It still hurt to be next to her, in the same room, breathing the same air, if he couldn't have her. But the awkwardness seemed to gradually fade as he genuinely made an attempt to be his usual self around her. She gestures to his bedroom, the one that's through his study, and he shakes his head, chuckling, and shuffles there.

Twenty minutes later, he comes back out with a dark purple button-down and a pair of his favorite dress pants, a coat slung over his arm. He leaves the stubble, but ensures that his hair is combed and smoothened. He smiles slightly when he spots her trying to work his coffee machine, and when she pours a cup for him, he takes it gratefully. He hasn't had a cup for a few days, has no reason to, since he usually drinks it only to match her. But he'll never tell her that, of course. The hot liquid warms his throat, warms his insides, a peck on his lips as though she were wishing him a good morning. He likes how the coffee represents everything that she is to him.

She's the cause of his pain, yet she's the one bringing him back to life. He doesn't know what to make of that. Only that he loves her – loves her more – if that were possible. He knows that she isn't like him – she doesn't express well, emotionally stunted from when the jagged blade pierced her mother's flesh – but he just wishes that she would open her eyes. See that he's there, he wants to be the one for her to lean upon. He wants to be everything Josh isn't. Because he knows. He knows how she hides, knows how she doesn't love these men that pop in and out of her life, only that they make her happy. He knows every little hiding place she has and what she's feeling and he wants to be the one to draw her out. He can make her happy. He _wants _to make her happy.

"…Castle!" she says, in a tone that tells him she's been calling his name for a while now. He grins sheepishly and places the mug back onto the table with a dull _clank. _

"Yes, my apologies. You were saying?"

"Remy's?"

He's stunned for a minute when she loops her arm through his, and he only remembers to moves when she tugs with a roll of her eyes. He can't keep the tiny, hint of a smile off his face.

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><p>Remy's is quiet at the odd hour of post-lunch and pre-dinner. Only a few diners occupy the few tables and chairs on the main floor while they slip into a corner booth that overlooks most of the restaurant. Their arms had untwined minutes into their walk, but he's taken to guiding her with a hand on the small of her back. Nothing too intimate… Right? They'd talked about odd things on the way, avoiding his issues like the plague, though her voice held such an acute curious tone that only he could've picked up.<p>

She slips into the leather seating first, and she scoots so that they're facing one another. Grabbing menus, his tummy rumbling and his tongue fighting to keep the drool at bay, he places his standard order while replacing his conventional chocolate milkshake with a mug of dark coffee. It's still too chilly within him to have something cold sliding down his throat. She shoots him an odd look, but decides to let it slide for the moment before ordering her usual.

Their waitress smiles, scribbles their orders onto her well-worn notepad in an elegant scrawl and saunters off to the kitchen. He keeps his eyes focused on wringing his hands on the tabletop, the lingering awkwardness coming back to haunt him. He's got half a mind to stand up and leave, knowing that his appetite hasn't really resurfaced, but she stares – really, just _stares – _at him, like he did when he was trying to figure her out.

He clears his throat, winces, when it's so obvious that he just wants to clear the awkwardness with his non-existent phlegm.

"So," he begins. "How's… Josh?

Great. His heart is pounding like a beating drum and he's wants to cry at their proximity. And he mentions her boyfriend. _Bang up job, Rick. Real smooth. _His inner chastising voice fades away when he notices her expression. He's seen it before in the interrogation room when she'd accused him of murder. Her eyes dart away from his and she leans back into the seat with an inaudible sigh. But seconds later, her eyes narrow slightly and she leans back forward.

"You're not getting that information so easily, Castle. I want something in return."

"Is that so?" He ponders, making an exaggerated show of stroking his stubble. "Name your price, Detective."

"Tell me what's been bothering you. Tell me what's on your mind," she says, and he gulps again, wanting to run when the waitress blocks his path with the arrival of their drinks. "Why have you been acting so strangely? Why haven't you been eating well?"

He opens his mouth to protest about the "not eating well" when Beckett interrupts. "Don't bother denying it. Alexis told me."

He feels the waves of nausea slamming into his gut, swallows to keep the bile at bay. Somehow, he manages to choke out, "Ladies first."

Beckett sets her jaw, staring wearily at him, and at the foam on her milkshake. "We broke up."

"Oh," he replies dumbly. "What happened?"

"I really liked him." She shakes her head solemnly. "But he wasn't what I was looking for."

He just wants to scream, _What? What is it that you're looking for? _He wants to grab her shoulders and shake her, just to jostle her eyelids open enough to see _him – _the steady point, the anchor, the strong impregnable Castle. Then her eyes dart toward him, green striking blue, and he has to remind himself to breathe for a moment.

"Why is it that the thing that attracts you to a person always ends up being that thing that just drives you crazy? He's always going off to exotic countries to save lives and I thought I… wanted that. One foot out the door, you know?" she pauses with a soft smile, breathes a long, shaky breath.

"I just wish I had someone who could be there for me, and I could be there for him, and we could both just dive into it together."

Looking up shyly from beneath her eyelashes, he's struck by the sheer intensity of her gaze as their eyes meet again. He can't breathe anymore, has to make sure that his lungs are expanding and collapsing, that air actually reaches his lungs and is jettisoned back out. He's staring back with as much emotion, as much feeling as he can muster, but her eyes... God, her eyes are practically screaming at him.

"I love you," he breathes, just as she reiterates her point with, "Someone like you."

He feels his heart stop when her entire face breaks into a smile. Then her hands are covering his and they're soft and warm and un-detective-like considering all the things she's done in the field. He can't stop the grin from blooming over his face and he feels the cloud that's been dampening his spirit in a torrent of rain break up into nothingness. Oh, the things she does to him.

"I know," she says with the same heart-stopping smile that she can't seem to control. He knows the feeling. At his disbelieving expression, she continues, amused. "I'm a detective, Castle. I… detect things, remember?"

"Right. Well," he clears his throat, feels that lump disappear in a heartbeat – pretty fast, since his heart's beating faster than he's ever felt it go. "If it's okay with you, Detective, I'd like to kiss you now."

She's already leaning in when he ends the sentence on a husky note, and when their lips finally, _finally _meet, he feels the entire world dissolve and channel into the gentle, passionate melding of their mouths. When she finally remembers that he hasn't fulfilled his end of the bargain, he sheepishly tells her the story how Rick Castle drowned in self-pity.

"Is this a dream?" he asks, holding out his arm for the mandatory pinch that accompanied the question. Her nimble fingers squeeze his flesh and he yelps theatrically. He glances at the amusement etched into her face, the smile she's already fighting to keep under wraps blooming over her face. Beautiful. He absolutely loves her smile, lives for it, really. And he can't help but wish to bear witness to that smile for the rest of his life.

She kisses him again.

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><p>Thank you for reading :)<p> 


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